


Unsuspecting Sunday Afternoon

by The_Moments_Gone



Series: Come To Me [4]
Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Moments_Gone/pseuds/The_Moments_Gone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one you hate to love is made for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsuspecting Sunday Afternoon

_Title: Unsuspecting Sunday Afternoon_  
 _Category: TV Shows » Days of Our Lives_  
 _Author: And The Moment’s Gone_  
 _Language: English, Rating: Rated: T_  
 _Published: 11-30-07 Completed  
_ _Chapter: 4, Words: 792_

_Warnings_ / _Spoilers_ : If you know Chloe came back to Sale in 2007 then you're all set.

_Summary_ : The one you hate to love is made for you.

_Official_ _Disclaimer_ : All Days of Our Lives characters and plots belong to Ted Corday, and NBC. I do not hold stock either the man or the company. Brady Black, Chloe Lane, and any other character featured are NOT mine. The title, summary, and lyrics come from the Backstreet Boys' song _Unsuspecting_ _Sunday_ _Afternoon_ and I don't own that either. 

* * *

 

_Last night I saw the fireworks_  
 _The kind of pain that never hurts_  
 _The one you hate to love is made for you  
_ _Another unsuspecting Sunday afternoon_

 

Nothing has been resolved.

He’s been home for three weeks and with the exception of an incredible marathon sex session immediately following his return; you haven’t done much but sleep together.

He’s staying in your hotel room though. At least that’s something.

He spends his days at the office; somewhere between the companies his father was running and his grandfather’s. It doesn’t amaze you that his uncle has stopped working with Victor. You actually wondered if Victor hadn’t told him to stop showing up. He always did like his grandson more.

When he’s not at work, he’s not with you though.

Not that you spend too much time trying to work him into your nonexistent schedule. You’re almost always asleep when he comes in or vise versa, and conversations when you see each other is kept to bare minimum; who saw whom today and whether or not you ate.

Your marriage is a teacup with hairline fractures. From the moment you burst through the emergency room door both of you have had to walk carefully as to not shake and shatter all that you’ve tried so hard to build.

You don’t want to tell him that you fled before you could break it. You don’t want to admit that you’ve tucked away memories so you will still have them when he throws the pieces away. There’s a part of you too afraid to find out that he boxed up the pain and filled the cracks to keep it safe. 

When you’re alone with him he writes.

It’s the one thing in eight years that you’ve known him that hasn’t and most likely won’t change. Poems, song lyrics, prose; you’re not entirely sure what’s in the tattered leather bound book that seems to never run out of pages. He once told you that it was the only way he could keep his thoughts straight, so you never thought to look. But it’s not like he kept it under lock and key.

After three weeks of silence, you finally notice it. 

At the end of the day, the journal that he keeps so close is left open.

It starts before his nightly shower. It’s always the same page; always the same two lines. You don’t read it, don’t even glance down as you close the book and set it on top of his laptop so he doesn’t forget it in the morning. After all that time apart you can’t help trying to take care of him.

But before the lights go out, it’s open again.

Same page.

Same lines.

You can’t tell if he’s testing you. Something tells you that he doesn’t know either.

It takes another week before you finally give in.

It’s more frustration than curiosity that makes you pick the book up when you should be closing it. He’s written at least ten more pages after it, you can tell by the creases and the ink stains that this page is the one he goes back to it frequently.

_I don’t understand why God would give us each other just to tear us apart again._

There are times you’ve asked yourself that exact same question. 

You’re not sure how you wound up sitting cross-legged on the bed, journal resting in your lap and the words glaring up at you from the page. Half an hour has passed and you have to resist the urge to look for more. Flipping the pages doesn’t help you though, you refuse to stop and read his thoughts.

When he comes back two hours later you’re still staring at the two lines on the page.

Without asking you what you’re doing, he flips the pages ahead by three, pulls off his shirt and walks into the bathroom. You can hear the water running long before he actually turns it on. He has a ritual at night that not even you could break him of. Shower; brush his teeth, wash face, bed.

Your eyes drop to the new page and you blink back the tears.

There’s no order to his writing. Half of the page is random words, some angled, more than a few upside down. It’s a literary jumble of thoughts and words. Part of you thinks that not even he knows where his ideas started and stopped.

You get halfway down the page before he returns, watching your face for any indication that this may be something you want to deal with tonight.

There’s so much you need to say. So much that can’t be said.

So you do what you do every night that you sleep side by side.

The journal gets closed, and set on top of his laptop for the morning.

There’ll be hell to pay if he forgets it. 


End file.
